


moonlight serenade

by Waywarder



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Dancing, Kissing, Post-Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), Slow Dancing in the Bookshop, Softness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:20:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24138757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waywarder/pseuds/Waywarder
Summary: Aziraphale, nervous and a bit tipsy, experiments with boldness on a certain night in 1941.Thanks, Glenn Miller. Love to a dear friend.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 115





	moonlight serenade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EveningStarcatcher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EveningStarcatcher/gifts).



_1941._

The Bentley pulled up in front of the bookshop.

“Would you like to come inside, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, hoping that he didn’t sound as breathless as he felt. It had really been quite an evening.

Crowley raised an eyebrow over his glasses, turning fully in his seat to look on Aziraphale.

“You sure?”

_Now? This time?_

Aziraphale swallowed.

“I’m certain.”

(You know this part already, don’t you? How the angel and the demon made their way through the doors of the bookshop that wartime evening. How they prattled on, how they went through a bottle of something full and red, how Crowley teased Aziraphale over his reaction to being double crossed by the Nazis, how each of them felt warmer and warmer as the evening went on and on.)

(It’s my favorite part.)

Crisp, bright moonlight streamed in through the bookshop windows, and the night was growing late. Their glasses were both empty, and perhaps they had finally run out of charming things to say. 

“How about some music?” Aziraphale finally fumbled. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so awkward in Crowley’s presence. Rome, maybe? Could it have really been so long ago? 

(What was so different tonight?)

_He might adore you_ whispered a rather bold voice in Aziraphale's mind.

Crowley nodded to the music query, now idly running one fingertip around the rim of his empty wine glass. Aziraphale nodded back slightly before snapping his fingers.

Something slow and warm and jazzy flooded the shop. Aziraphale hadn’t consciously picked the particular song, but it was one that he recognized. American, he was pretty positive. Just a few years old now. 

It was rather romantic. 

Crowley set down his wine glass first, then removed his hat carefully, and finally plucked the glasses off of his face. He got to his feet, eyes finding Aziraphale’s. The angel nearly gasped out loud for the second time that evening. There was a quiet, serious determination in Crowley’s golden gaze. A sense of focus and sureness that Aziraphale didn’t often associate with the languid, sarcastic demon he knew so well.

Crowley didn’t cross the room to take Aziraphale into his arms. Not yet. It seemed that they were Here, together, finally, at least for tonight, and that Crowley was determined to take his time. 

_To do it right?_ Aziraphale wondered, and it nearly snapped his heart into two. He wanted to rush across the room himself, to fall to his knees and grasp Crowley’s hands and promise him that he was right, he was perfect, he had never done anything wrong…

Crowley removed his suit jacket, and draped it along the back of the sofa. Next he set to work undoing the buttons on his shirt cuffs, one at a time. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing lean, wiry forearms. He brought his hands up to his throat, and Aziraphale couldn’t stand it any longer. He walked across the room, and held his soft hands in front of him, looking up into Crowley’s eyes.

“May I, darling?”

_Darling._ No word had ever slipped from his lips so easily.

Amber eyes still blazing with resolution, Crowley nodded. Aziraphale brought his own just-so-trembling hands up to the demon’s necktie, and began to slowly unknot it. He would have hated to snag the material, so he was gentle in his work, loosening the knot by pulling it side to side. Once the backend had slipped free, Aziraphale worked his thumb into the knot, liberating the long end now. As he worked, he imagined Crowley standing before a mirror earlier that day, long and lean and handsome, getting dressed in a suit to come and rescue him.

Crowley's eyes never left Aziraphale.

When the tie was undone and hanging loose down either side of Crowley’s chest, Aziraphale let his hands linger. He was just a touch shorter than Crowley, and so he kept his eyes straight ahead, looking at Crowley’s chin and throat. He wondered what it would be like to feel that skin beneath his lips. 

_Is it time? Is it yet?_

The music faded away as Aziraphale felt a gentle finger slide under his jaw and tilted his face up to meet Crowley’s once more.

“Angel,” Crowley said, and oh, Aziraphale never loved that word so much as he did coming from that mouth. “Start the song again, my heart.”

Aziraphale snapped his fingers again, and the same song started back up. Crowley took Aziraphale’s hands in his, laid a soft kiss to each one, and then put them where he wanted them. One hand up on Crowley’s shoulder, and the other hand safe within Crowley’s own. Crowley placed his free hand on Aziraphale’s waist, and they both sucked in a breath at this newer, more intimate contact.

“All right?” Crowley murmured, the first waver of nerves creeping into his voice.

Aziraphale didn’t think he would ever find the right words to convince Crowley of how more than all right this was, so he didn’t even make the attempt. 

He leaned forward and pressed his lips to Crowley’s. Crowley gasped against his mouth. (It was an evening of surprises, apparently.) Aziraphale pulled away himself now, smiling nervously up at Crowley.

“I believe I owe you a dance,” the angel’s voice was almost a whisper.

“You don’t owe me a thing,” Crowley countered, pulling Aziraphale more tightly against his own body, wrapping his arm around his waist. “But a dance sounds… well, I hate to say _divine,_ but…”

Crowley trailed off and shrugged his shoulders. His eyes flicked to his hands on Aziraphale, and let out a low whistle.

“I like this,” he admitted. “Do you know what we do next?”

So hopeful. _Tell me, please. What’s the next bit of the story? The knight rescues the princess, sure, but then what?_

“This isn’t a dance I know, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale confessed. “But perhaps we might begin with something like a sway?”

“Sounds as good as start as any.”

So they did. There was no clever footwork, no whirling spins that sent Aziraphale crashing into bookshelves. Just an angel and a demon, swaying together to the music. Aziraphale let out a sigh, and tucked his head into the crook of Crowley’s neck. He felt Crowley kiss softly against his hair. 

Once again the music ended too soon.

“Play it again, angel.”

So Aziraphale did. He very nearly rubbed his fingers raw from snapping.

Sometimes they danced up closely to one another, each of them with their eyes closed shut, just feeling and breathing and swaying. This last time (not that they knew that yet; none of us ever does), though, they pulled back enough to look into one another’s eyes.

“Hey, angel.”

“Yes, my dear?”

“Don’t actually get discorporated, okay?”

“Oh, really, Crowley. The paperwork’s not all bad.”

“‘S not that.”

Aziraphale cocked his head slightly to the side. “Well, why then?”

_Say it, please._

“You know,” Crowley protested, finally working up the courage to send Aziraphale out on a single twirl. When he swung the angel back in, Aziraphale found his back against Crowley’s chest, their arms crossed together in front of Aziraphale. 

“I don’t.”

“Well, I know why,” Crowley said against Aziraphale’s ear.

(And so do you.)

Crowley went on:

“I don’t like being on an Earth without you. Not even for a minute.”

Aziraphale leaned back against Crowley, hugging the demon’s arms more firmly to him. He turned his head, craning as far back as he could to try to meet the demon’s gaze. 

“Crowley?”

“Mmm?”

“May I kiss you again?”

“Go on, then.”

It wasn’t the best angle, but when you’ve been in love for centuries and when one of you has used demonic interference to drop a bomb on top of a gang of Nazis for the other one of you, well…

You make it work.

Crowley leaned forward to capture Aziraphale’s lips with his own just as the song started playing again. Aziraphale was grateful for the instrumental piece. Which words would possibly do in this moment, after all?

Crowley brought a hand up to Aziraphale’s cheek, and Aziraphale moaned in response, deepening the kiss. He could stand the awkward position no longer, rotating in Crowley’s arms until they were pressed tightly to one another. Crowley wound both of his arms around Aziraphale, seemingly trying to crush them even closer together. Aziraphale, for his part, brought his fingers up to wind through Crowley’s short, auburn hair. 

They didn’t stop kissing the entire time.

Crowley’s fingers settled along the waist of Aziraphale’s trousers, and he finally pulled away to look deeply into Aziraphale’s eyes. A harsh inhale of breath and:

“Can I?”

(But which one of them asked? Does it matter? The answer is the same:)

A breathless _“Yes.”_

Crowley tugged the bottom of Aziraphale’s shirt out from his trousers, and traced his fingers reverently along the skin that he found there. Aziraphale, his fingers still laced through Crowley’s hair, shuddered at the contact. Crowley pulled away, eyes full of worry, eyes full of questions. Always questions.

“Angel, is it okay? Do you want-”

And Aziraphale was clever. Terribly clever. He knew the correct answer. But there was an awful war on just outside of the bookshop and seemingly everywhere, and he was just so very much in love, and so he nodded his head ferociously and brought his own hands down to Crowley’s, urging the demon to touch him more. 

So Crowley did. He brought a hand away just enough to snap, divesting Aziraphale of his golden waistcoat. But the pale blue shirt… Crowley savored. He ran his long fingers over every inch of angel-skin that he could reach, and then he began to undo buttons, one by one by one. Aziraphale, no longer needing to coax Crowley’s fingers along with his own, turned his attention to the demon’s own button up, offering it the same care that he had offered his necktie earlier in the evening.

Aziraphale snapped.

The song began again.

It played and it played and it played until the notes were practically nonsense. 

And the angel and the demon danced as moonlight streamed in through the bookshop windows.

**Author's Note:**

> I will probably never stop writing vignettes about them dancing.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
